


fever

by TomBowline



Series: inferno [1]
Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1970s, Alternate Universe - Mob, Anal Sex, Established Relationship, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Recreational Drug Use, Semi-Public Sex, Unsafe Sex, gratuitous 70s fashion, just generally ill-advised sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-09
Updated: 2020-11-09
Packaged: 2021-03-09 06:47:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27209854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TomBowline/pseuds/TomBowline
Summary: Sol gets them thrown out of a club they're selling at, Neil's pissed, they fuck about it.
Relationships: Cornelius Hickey/Sgt Solomon Tozer
Series: inferno [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1986475
Comments: 3
Kudos: 10
Collections: Hickeyshipping 2020





	fever

**Author's Note:**

  * For [attheborder](https://archiveofourown.org/users/attheborder/gifts).



“What the hell was that?”

Neil’s voice rang out sharp and loud over the thump of music from within the club and the chatter around the doors, not caring for the eyes that would be drawn their way. Of course not. If Neil was making a scene, it was because he wanted to.

Sol groaned, batted at the hand on his neck to dislodge the overzealous bouncer who was currently ejecting them from their place of business, such as it was. “Neil, he had a gun, what was I meant to do?”

“He wasn’t gonna _use_ it, you fucking reprobate.” They were out on their arses properly now, standing on the narrow sliver of pavement outside the club at the mercy of the noisy stinking night. Neil adjusted his suede jacket (the burgundy one with the stained lining tonight, accompanied by a new patterned silk shirt in a shade of orange that made Sol’s eyes hurt - flash bastard) and fished a cigarette out. Lit it, pulled from it just once, and dropped it to the ground to crush it smartly beneath the pointed toe of his patent leather boot. 

“He pulls that trigger and there’s a fucking stampede in there. Nobody wants that.” Neil stared at Sol like a teacher trying to impress a lesson into the mind of a particularly stupid child. “What you were meant to do is let me show my knife and just stand behind me lookin’ threatening. Not swing a fucking punch to try and disarm the bastard, Jesus. Walk with me.” He threw up a hand to beckon, as if Sol needed further instruction, as if Sol wouldn’t follow him without any instruction at all. Sol rolled his eyes and fell into step.

“You know what this means, of course?” Neil’s tone was conversational, only with that quick little edge to it that matched the white grit under his immaculate nails. It was a dangerous tone, but Sol was living dangerously, these days. 

“Go on,” Sol sighed, not trying all that hard to sound sorry. The guy had a gun, and he’d been pointing it at Neil. Sol couldn’t stand by. He couldn’t live with himself if something happened to Neil and he could have prevented it. (Could barely live with himself as it was, jerked around on Neil’s leash day and night, but things could always be worse.) If Neil wanted a bloke just to stand there and not do anything worth a shit, he should hire a different bodyguard.

“It means—” Neil leant over and landed a swift little punch on Sol’s shoulder that left Sol wincing with the unexpected pain of it. “That you’ve just cost us the night’s wages, you knob. ‘Less you want to try standing on the corner and hawking the stuff.” 

“Why does it still hurt when you do that? You’re what, half my size?” Sol was aware that he was whining, that Neil didn’t like when he whined. He was too aggrieved to care.

“Because I mean it,” Neil hissed. “You never mean it, Solomon.”

“Oh!” Sol had had enough, truly. He grabbed Neil by the back of his jacket - ignoring the petty sound of protest this produced - and spun them into the alley they’d been walking past, scrubbing Neil’s back against the dark brick as he pinned him. Neil’s new habit of wearing absurdly high platforms put them closer to the same height, but he hoisted him up a bit anyway just to prove his point. “Don’t pull that shit, Cornelius,” he growled.

Neil only smiled a sourly pleased little smile, but Sol was determined to have it out with him. “Don’t tell me I never mean it, man. I’ve been doing nothing but since I took this job. Five years watching your skinny little arse to keep you from getting stabbed or shot or fucking arrested—” Neil was nodding along, looking vaguely impatient. Sol could cry from frustration. “You have jerked me around to the ends of the fucking earth, to fucking Canada, for Christ’s sake. And I’ve gone happily, I’ve been your mule and your bagman and your patsy, and I’ve stuck with you, Neil. Don’t ever fucking tell me I don’t mean it.”

He had got a leg between both of Neil’s to pin him, and now rather than make any verbal reply, Neil angled his hips down and rubbed his prick over Sol’s thigh. His hands came up to stroke over Sol’s heaving flanks as he smirked at Sol, all self-satisfied. “Show me how much you mean it then, hmm?”

Sol really was quite upset. But he found he was having a hard time holding onto his anger with Neil’s hands untucking his shirt and Neil’s cock hardening against his leg. Neil’s fingers trailing up to hook in the gold ring in his ear and _pulling_. 

He snarled out an unintelligible curse and gave in, lunged for Neil’s mouth to give him what could only loosely be called a kiss. He dropped his hands from Neil’s lapels, pinning him to the wall with the sheer bulk of his body as he searched out the nipped-in line of Neil’s velvet-clad waist. From the waistband at his navel to the crease about his thighs ran a neat row of brass buttons, which Sol treated none-too-gently in his quest to get Neil’s trousers down. Fancy fucking bastard in his fancy fucking clothes, velvet trousers and silk shirts and mismatched rings on every finger. The most obvious compensation Sol had ever seen. Or it would have been, if Neil hadn’t been so dangerously competent under the veneer of underestimation afforded him by his stature. One of these days, Sol was certain, he would either be very wealthy or dead in a roadside ditch somewhere because of Neil. 

In the meantime, there was this. There was the appealing slightness of Neil’s arse, his pleased gasp as Sol spun him to press his face into the wall. There was the searing damp warmth of Neil’s hole as Sol spit on his fingers and pressed one bluntly in. “Lube in my left jacket pocket, you fucking animal,” Neil sniped, but he pushed back to fuck shallowly onto Sol’s hand all the same. 

In between the moment he first fished out the lube (feeling the gratifying heave of Hickey’s breath beneath his hand) to spread it over his fingers and the moment he got three greased fingers up Neil’s sucking hole, Sol had time to wonder what the hell he was doing. Quick and dirty was par for the course for him, particularly with Neil, but fucking arse in a grimy little alley in the middle of the Soho nightlife was a new low. 

Then Neil moved back against him and took his fingers up to the second knuckle, and all his sour curdling doubt melted right away. That was how it always was with Neil - the bad was bloody awful, but the good always managed to outweigh it. 

The first press in was fucking incandescent, the wait to adjust before he started to move almost unbearable. Maybe it was the high from earlier in the night still lingering, maybe it was the thrill of the car horns and chattering drunks going past the mouth of the alley - maybe it was simply Neil, but Sol was going out of his head with how good it felt. He couldn’t help the little twitch of his hips, though he knew he would pay for it - and yes, there was the sharp blocky heel of Neil’s boot, driving into his shin with such force that it would surely scuff his smart black trousers. He could not bring himself to care, not with Neil hot and fidgety and pulsing ’round him. 

Only when Neil started squirming and driving back onto him did he start to thrust in earnest, but once he got an inch he was happy to take a mile. He fucked up hard and fast, hands bruising on the lean soft skin of Neil’s waist, nose tucked into Neil’s long pale neck to take in the sleazy smell of him, cigarettes and cheap hair gel. He got Neil to groan when he bit down where neck met shoulder, just sank his teeth in and kept them there as he set to sucking out a bruise. Neil’s voice was disdainful, gasping out, “Feral fuckin’— ah— dog— Why I keep you around—” but his prick twitched and leaked into Sol’s hand as Sol found a new spot to mark. Nearly there, Sol thought, come on.

Two more deep grinding thrusts - his hand speeding up over Neil’s cock - the stretch of his neck as he caught Neil’s earlobe between his teeth and worried at the little jewel that was stuck there to glint under club lights and streetlights like a hidden knife - _there._ Neil let out a juddering breath and painted the wall of the alley with his come. In the wake of it he twitched and clutched at Sol so wonderfully that Sol came too without even paying much mind to it. 

“Jacket’s ruined, I suppose.” Neil heaved a sigh as he cinched his trousers back up. “Can’t let you have anything nice.”

“Get a new one,” Sol shot back, then held up a hand before Neil could continue flogging Sol over the damn gun and the damn club and the damn money. “We’re goin’ to Captain’s.”

“They’ll throw us right out of Captain’s, you oaf.” Neil rummaged in his pockets, then held out a hand. “Got a handkerchief?”

Sol handed one over - a really rather nice black silk one that he’d bought on a whim with cash from their last big score - only to see it disappear down the back of Neil’s trousers. He made a face which went completely ignored. “They won’t. It’s Tricky Dicky’s place for tonight, I saw the advert. Gay nights in straight clubs. His guys won’t recognize us, and no way’s he got trained bouncers. Last time I was there it was someone’s cousin Jeff at the door.”

Neil tugged him down by his earring again - he was really going to have to curb that sometime soon, before it became a habit - to give him a sweet, scratchy kiss. “You’re a wonder, Sol,” he said blithely, punctuating this accolade with a pat to Sol’s arse. “Let’s go make rent, eh?”

**Author's Note:**

> i usually don't do this since i'm usually writing in a time period where condoms don't exist yet, but since this is fairly modern, here is your obligatory warning to please, please always use protection. Also, don't fuck in an alley. Basically just don't do anything these two knobs are doing.
> 
> DJ Tricky Dicky (aka Richard Scanes) was a real man, and a pioneer of the gay scene in London. [Here](https://daily.redbullmusicacademy.com/2013/05/coming-out-ball-70s-gay-clubbing-in-london) is where i first learned about him.
> 
> Also, i promise i am currently, as we speak, writing about the terrible time these two had in Canada.


End file.
